Baby, What You're Looking At Is What You Get
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: AU Porny ansty verse. Dean is a self confessed dick addict, who gets off on getting 'fixes' with multiple guys. Cas, is the cop that arrests him for public indecency. Smut, angst etc.
1. Chapter 1

_Another angsty, porny, weird-thing. It's been so long!_

Dean sees the blue lights before he hears the sirens, and he knows he's in deep shit now.

In all fairness, it's a miracle he hasn't been caught sooner. After all, this is how he spends quite a few of his nights now. They're in the not-so-top-secret location of a stand of trees just off the turnpike, and there's a car parked out there, lights on (not his care, he doesn't involve the impala in this) and a load of other cars not so far away. The other cars are of course all empty. Everyone has turned out for the show.

Dean is, for the record, not an exhibitionist. He likes his sex private when he can get it, but, there's no way he's going to take even one strange dude back to his place, let alone seven. And motel s get fussy about renting by the hour to groups of more than three.

So, it's the woods off the turnpike, or he's out of luck.

He's not an exhibitionist, so the circle of men around him doesn't really do much to get him going. He can't really see them anyway, because he's bent face first over the front of the car, half kneeling on the bonnet. This is why he's the first one to see the lights, they're reflected in the dark glass below him.

Having said he's not into being watched, Dean is the first to admit that he's not exactly kink free. That's kind of why he's here.

The cop car pulls up, and most of the guys try to make a run for it. Dean has no idea if they manage to get away, but when he manages to get himself upright, picking his pants up from the ground and slipping clumsily into them, he realises that he's alone in the clearing.

Well, apart from the cop.

"Hands where I can see them," the guys says, sounding almost bored.

Dean holds his hands up.

"Been a while since anyone actually turned tricks on the turnpike. I was hoping it would just become an expression." The cop looks tired, and he reaches for his cuffs almost reluctantly, coming over and cuffing Dean quickly.

"I'm not a hooker," Dean says, uncomfortable without his shirt, with his skin all sweaty and going cold under the trees, aching inside because he got interrupted in the middle of his fix.

"Oh really," says the cop's bored voice.

"Yeah, really. I have a job, and it pays way better than turning tricks."

"Good to know."

"Hey, I just don't want you booking me without knowing all the facts."

The cop manoeuvres him to the car, slides Dean into the back and gets into the driver's seat. Into the radio he says,

"Dispatch, disturbance by the turnpike turned out to be a gathering of horny white gentleman. One possible sex worker in custody, white, mid-forties-"

"I'm thirty-one!"

"Claims to be a civilian."

The radio rasps something Dean doesn't catch, and the cop puts the car into gear and starts driving.

"I'm really not a hooker," Dean says quietly.

"I believe you."

"No you don't."

"I do...I'm just trying to think what you were doing out there if you weren't getting paid."

"I was..." Dean tries to shrug, which is hard with his hands cuffed behind his back. "I was just getting my fix."

"So you're a strawberry?"

"Huh?"

"You trade sex for drugs."

"No! Dude, I don't take drugs. Look, I'm an EMT OK? I lied about making more than a hooker, but I am not on drugs."

"So by fix you mean?"

"That's what I call it," Dean muttered, looking out of the window, wishing he'd kept his fool mouth shut.

"I'm guessing you like people watching you have sex?" the cop said, an ok, so Dean can only see the back of his head, the curly dark hair and pale skin, but he knows the guy is uncomfortable.

"Not particularly...I just, like guys." Dean shifted uncomfortably, feeling the cuffs dig in. He can feel the lube running out of him, making his underwear sticky. Not a pleasant feeling. "More specifically, I like...dick, a lot."

There's a very long, very strained silence.

"You were going to..."

"Fuck all of those men? Every one." Dean tries for blasé, "you know that feeling where you've gotten a lot of something you love, like...I don't know, candy, drink – and then you just get a little more, a little more...ever been that far past what you need? Just because you could?"

It's true, Dean has never been able to get enough, not since he discovered guys back in high school. Only now, instead of going out every night for one quick, unsatisfying screw, he gets his 'fix' weekly. Seven or so guys, picked from craigslist, or anywhere else pervs gather, all meet up and fuck him, one after the other. Sure, he usually comes around the second guy, but that feeling of just going and going, 'till he can't walk? That feeling fucking ruins him, and he loves it.

The cop clears his throat and Dean hears him take a breath.

"That's...quite a dangerous thing to be doing."

Dean shrugs. "What isn't these days?"

"But the sheer amount of diseases, not to mention potentially unstable men...it's incredibly risky."

"I know," Dean says, because he does, and he's had his share of close encounters to know exactly what kind of fire he's playing with. "But...it's just this itch, man...can't get by without it. I bet you've got a vice or two."

"Sometimes I kill hitch hikers," agrees the cop.

Dean sits in stunned silence.

"That was a joke."

"Oh...good one."

The cop sighs, "I used to have a problem, kind of a...chemical imbalance."

"What kind?"

"The prescription kind."

Dean whistles.

"I was...uh...well, actually, my partner was shot, and the guy that killed him broke my foot, so I wound up on pain pills. And...well, turns out I'm not so great at impulse control."

They drive in silence for a moment.

"Sorry about your partner."

"He was a good cop, funny too...you probably would have gotten along with him."

Dean glances up, and spots a pair of blue eyes in the rear-view. They're the colour of the dirty neon stripe over the bar he visits every night he has off work. The rims of them are red, like the guy's been crying, or like he plans to start soon.

"How long ago did he..."

"Three months."

"Shit," Dean mutters. "You...are you ok, to be back at work after something like that?"

The cop nods quickly. "Work helps me not think about it...or, I only think about the good parts. Plus, it keeps me away from the pills." He shakes his head, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm talking about it to you. You don't even know me."

"Hey, I'm Dean," Dean says, "talk away Officer..."

"Novak...Castiel Novak."

"Officer Cas," Dean says, glancing back at the mirror. "After I get out of the slammer we should go do something, talk some more, do shots."

"That could be...nice." Castiel says, taking his eyes off of the road to meet Dean's eyes in the mirror.

"Hey, if you feel like it we could even make it back out to the turnpike," Dean says. He has no idea why he says it, maybe it's because, what with trying to get his fixes, he's learnt to hit on any guy that comes his way. Maybe it's because he only got up to guy number two, and he's still itching for more.

Or maybe it's because the thing he wants most at that moment is to reach around the seat and put his arms around the skinny, red-eyed cop.

Either way, Castiel's eyes widen a little, but he doesn't say no. He doesn't tell Dean he's an idiot, or that he's way too good to fuck some messed up dick-addict out in the woods.

He just drives them both to the station, and, as he closes the door on Dean's cell, he says a quiet,

"See you later."


	2. Chapter 2

_Second partiness...well, last partiness. _

Porn misinformed Dean about jail.

It's dark and boring, and it smells like sweat and pee. There are no hot guys in leather and ragged denim, just one old drunk talking to himself.

Of course, there's a hot cop, but he's off somewhere else, doing cop stuff.

Dean sits on the bench that runs along one wall. He's so fucking hot and it's completely unfair, gross jail cells are not the stuff of his wildest fantasies, and there's no one around to fuck around with. He's practically crawling out of his skin, enough to pay good money for any one of the guys he had waiting out by the turnpike. Forget getting a satisfying fix, he'd settle for a quick screw. Only, typically, as twitchy as his body is, as much as he feels like he's about to catch fire, taking the cell with him, he knows that some craigslist dick with a receding hairline and a Civic with legos kicked under the seats isn't going to touch this ache.

So, he sits and waits while all around the walls of the cell, corridors full of cops go about their business, as paperwork is written up, databases updated, calls taken, and a thousand other jobs are taken care of.

It's really frustrating, but Dean knows how to wait. He also knows that he might have what some could call a 'problem'. Sam seemed to think so. But really, sex wasn't going to kill his liver or screw up his veins, cost him his job and his apartment. Sam thought he was some kind of nympho, and that wasn't right. He was just greedy – greedy with everything, with food, alcohol, sleep, sex – all the good things in life that he could get for himself. Wanting a lot of something didn't make him a sex addict – it just meant he ran a little hotter than most.

More frequently than thoughts of getting his arresting officer alone however, were the thoughts of just what that officer had shared with him. A dead partner was heavy stuff, Dean had picked up two downed cops in his career, and each time the emotion of the other officers at the scene was a kind of pent up furious anxiety. There's been visitors in and out of the hospital, and Dean had even been given a punch on the arm and a hug for helping to save one of them. The second officer had died, and Dean couldn't help think that there wasn't a man mourned in the city, that was mourned harder than a dead cop.

To get through losing a partner, to get out of the hole of addiction, Castiel had to made out of serious steel.

Finally, the door of the cell banged open, and a female officer with red hair came to let him go. He had to fill in some paperwork, collect his things, and then go out front to catch a bus. He looked about him the whole time, but saw no sign of Officer Castiel. The disappointment almost killed him.

It was dark outside, cars passed in a sliver of fibreglass gleaming under the street lights. He had just about enough cash for a bus home. Alone. Inwardly he cursed, it was by no means too late to call up a craigslist regular and meet up at a motel, but he didn't want to. It would be like trying to make up for losing a steak dinner by gobbling fifteen hamburgers.

A car pulled up to the curb and the window glided down. Dean looked in and saw Castiel sitting behind the wheel, so much cuter than he remembered, and wearing what he guessed passed for civilian clothes – a pair of jeans and his uniform shirt, open at the collar.

"Are you getting in?"

Dean opened the door and slid into the car. It was warm, no air conditioning, but the seats were leather than had been beaten into submission, and the radio was playing quietly.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked, resting his hands on the wheel. Dean liked that, he did it himself in his car, touching the wheel when he was deciding what to do, where to go, knowing he had the ability to get himself anywhere.

"How about mine?" he said. It was a challenge to himself, and, to his surprise, no alarm bells went off. He trusted Castiel, and not just because he was a cop, but because he'd told him something private, shared it like there was no one in the world but the two of them.

He gave Castiel the address, and leant back in his seat, letting expectation relax him. Castiel didn't talk whole he drove. The windows were cracked open, the radio breathing out cool orchestra refrains, the stifling air was lightened by a smattering of hot summer rain. Dean closed his eyes.

Too soon, they were at his apartment, and he climbed out, lulled by the drive, but still excited. A banked down heat, rather than a flare.

They went in, took the elevator and Castiel waited while Dean unlocked the door. They hadn't touched each other since Castiel took Dean to the cell. Dean had always thought that part of what he loved was having guys feel him up, grab at him. But he felt different with Castiel standing close enough to touch, but not.

Inside, he turned on a lamp by the door, put his keys down, let Castiel in and closed the door. They took off their coats and Dean hung Castiel's jacket up with his own.

"Beer?" he asked.

Castiel was looking around the apartment with neutral interest. He wasn't impressed, or dismayed, just, taking it in, like there'd be a test on it later.

"After," Castiel turned to him, reached up and drew him down into a kiss, not pushing or claiming, just testing it out, seeing if it fit.

Dean nodded, and they kissed again, slowly, Castiel's hands resting lightly on Dean's arms. They moved backwards to the couch, and Dean sank down on it, hands bringing Castiel with him so that they were sprawled over the wide, sagging cushions.

They kissed, long and deep, and Castiel seemed determined to touch him everywhere in his unhurried way, fingers picking their way lightly over his throat, the nape of his neck, his arms, the insides of his elbows, brushing over Dean's exposed skin. Dean had never had someone so interested in all of him before, usually it was only one specific part of him (hell, usually he didn't take his shirt and shoes off) but Castiel rubbed the tip of his nose behind Dean's ear, and peeled his shirt of carefully, sitting back and then running his fingers over his chest, tracing the ribs that were visible at the uppermost part of his sides, disappearing into the softer flesh. Running the pads of his fingers over the hairs on Dean's stomach, thumb skating over his navel. And all the time, Dean squeezed Cas's shoulders, fiddled with his dark hair, and barely kept from whimpering.

When Castiel had stripped Dean of his clothes, stroked the backs of his knees, circled his ankles with curious fingers, pressed the heel of his hand to the bridge of Dean's foot, he leant back and looked him over.

"Anyone would think you'd never seen a naked dude before." Dean muttered, he was hard, he wanted the main event, and soon, but he couldn't bring himself to be pissed because he was half melted into the couch cushions. He'd never thought having someone touch the backs of his knees could make him ache like this, but somehow, Castiel had managed it.

"I haven't seen you." Castiel said, with simple logic. He was still fully clothed and when he stood up, Dean didn't have enough care in him to be worried about him not coming back.

Castiel went to the bathroom and returned with the plastic box in which Dean kept his supplies. Condoms, lube, the usual suspects to be found in anyone's bathroom cabinet. Dean tilted his head on the couch cushion and looked at them. He was still pretty loose from earlier, but he didn't want to say anything. Still, Castiel would notice and then it would be...what? Awkward? Cas had already seen him with another dude – with several, other dudes. Still, Dean felt embarrassed.

Castiel undid his uniform shirt, and Dean saw three marks on his back, roughly circular pucks of skin, two silvery, and one still purplish. Scars. With the shirt set aside, Castiel removed his jeans and underwear as if Dean wasn't even there, but when he turned back to him, Dean saw that he was hard, and there was a reassuring warmth in his expression. Castiel sighed as he sank onto the couch, reached for a condom packet, and ripped it open.

Dean wanted to say something, something to let Castiel know that he never did this, never brought guys back to his apartment, never let them wander around unsupervised, never let them put their cool fingers all over him and get him this soft and happy, but he couldn't think of anything that didn't sound dumb, even in his head.

Castiel didn't comment on what Dean had done at the turnpike, just slipped on the condom, ran a lubed hand first over himself, and then gently pressed the warm slick between Dean's legs, adding thick wetness where Dean had gotten dry and raw.

Dean sank deeper into the cushions, and when Castiel finally laid himself out on top of him, it was with the slow satisfaction of someone sinking into a hot bath after a long day.

With one leg thrown over the back of the couch, the other resting on the cushions beside Castiel, Dean leans back and utters a low moan as Castiel finally slides into him. Maybe it's because he's gone without getting properly laid in...well, hours, but Cas feels perfect and Dean's whole body relaxes at that first push, because finally, he's got someone inside him, and it sends a rush through his veins.

OK, so maybe he's a little addicted.

Castiel fucks like he kisses, slowly, deeply, and Dean kisses him sloppily, opens his legs as far as possible, offers himself up, to the steady pressure of Castiel inside of him, they never stop touching each other, and Castiel's hands are just as curious as they were before, tracing smears of lube over Dean's thigh, cupping the back of his calf, touching his lips, his hair, and all the time that steady thrusting, until Dean feels hot and close and wound so, so tight that he wants to Castiel to give it up and just lay him out already.

It takes what feels like forever, but the good kind, like a summer evening that never seems to end, before Dean feels himself going hot inside and out, and his legs shake and his cock twitches against Castiel's stomach. But Cas refuses to speed up, just comes close, kisses him, and brings their bodies together hypnotically, coaxing Dean towards an orgasm a second at a time, until Dean squeezes his eyes shut, and feel something hot inside of him turn over and throb, and he starts to come. He never thought he'd get it, never thought it could feel this good to simply come, but Castiel keeps moving, and so slowly that Dean can barely feel him moving away from him. He fucks him through the orgasm until Dean's thighs tremble, and he's biting down hard on his lip to keep from embarrassing himself with a sob, and he still wants more. And Castiel keeps his hot body on top of him, come and sweat sticking them together, Dean's throbbing, spent cock trapped between them, and gives him everything he's got.

Dean's barely conscious, just hot and limp and insensible to anything but Castiel filling him, over and over, his whole body occasionally jerking as it accepts more pleasure than it knows what to do with. His back is sticking to the cloth of the couch, sweat soaked and boiling. He feels Castiel part his legs further, hitching one even higher on the couch back, the other pushed up with one slick hand, and Dean feels him settle more over him, the tickle of Cas's hair against the side of his face. And he can't say anything because words are a little beyond him at this point, but he turns his face against Castiel's and nuzzles him, in a way that he would never, ever do if he wasn't so lazily fucked out.

When Castiel starts to speed up, Dean sets his teeth and tries to take it. It feels so good, too good, and it's like his body has a mind of it's own, because he can't help bucking and scrunching his toes, his legs trying to open further and snap closed all at the same time. But Castiel holds him down gently, firmly, boxed over him. And he goes faster. Dean's having an interesting relationship with oxygen, and his body is like one single nerve that Castiel's got hold of in both hands, and all Dean can think is that if Castiel takes his cock away, he'll die, right here on his couch. He never wants this to be over, not ever.

So, when Castiel shoves forwards once, twice, his body shaking as he comes, Dean actually hears a sob escape his own mouth, because he is so not done.

Castiel pulls away, and Dean feels him leave the couch, and he can't bring himself to open his eyes, because if he does, it's over. His skin prickles with cold, and although he feels soreness creeping in on, he can almost taste the want building up in him.

A wet touch between his legs startles him, and when he realises that it's Castiel's tongue he moans and stretches out, feeling the pangs of double edged pleasure start firing off inside of him again. It's not enough, not deep enough or hard enough, but it's good, and he doesn't want it to stop. Castiel moves up, licking Dean's cock, feeling it jump against his mouth, flushed and soft and almost begging to be left alone, that is, if Dean wasn't pushing his hips up. And then there's a finger inside of him, not enough, another, until there are four fingers inside of him, not going far enough, and Dean's whimpering, despite his best intentions. He can feel himself still making a valiant effort to clench tightly around Castiel's fingers, even though he's so open that he could probably take his whole...

And that's when Dean realises that Castiel has big plans for him.

"Is this OK?" Castiel asks softly, and it's the first they've spoken since Castiel told him that he'd never seen him naked, like it was some kind of sight to behold, and he says this the same way.

It takes Dean a second to remember, oh yeah, words. But eventually he manages, "Do it."

Castiel puts more lube on his hand, a lot more. Dean's tried this before, done it with a few guys, but, truth be told, it had been...not so great. It was his fault as well as theirs, getting impatient, getting too brave for his own good, writing cheques his ass couldn't cash, or something like that. And the guys were...they were guys, they wanted it done, they wanted to do it to him.

Castiel's fingers are careful, firm and warm. Dean can take four fingers no problem, hell, he's taken more before, still, Castiel's thumb popping in there with the rest of his long fingers makes him shiver, from his scalp to his toes. He's spread so far open that he knows cracks will start to show. He doesn't let this happen normally, doesn't let people get so far inside him, literally and figuratively, that they can take him apart.

Castiel slowly eases his hand along, and Dean finds himself stuck trying to take in the same breath, over and over, only he can't, and he feels dizzy, and...and Castiel's fingers curl around and Dean almost faints, goes limp and opens his mouth, a silent sound, so maybe one that no one else can hear.

"Dean?" Castiel sounds breathless, and Dean whimpers, unable to move, just focuses on trying to breathe. Castiel waits a moment, then longer, and then slowly starts to move his hand, his fist. Going in a long, hot swallow, it drags over Dean's prostate and reaches up to a point that makes him tingle, like there's electricity in him.

There's no hope of keeping any kind of hold on himself, and Dean lets go, completely. Castiel keeps his movements slow, but deep, and Dean falls apart and begs, actually begs, silently, physically, for anything, everything – everything that can be meant by _more._

When Castiel strokes his limp cock, Dean's body jerks, and refuses to relax, he's gripping Castiel's hand so tightly that he swears he can feel each knuckle, one of which is pressing directly on that spot that drives the ache into him like a hot metal spike.

Slowly, Castiel winds him down, kisses his thighs, strokes his stomach, takes his hand away and leaves Dean a shivering, fucked out mess. He can feel his hole twitching, empty, his insides like molten need, and still, he wants...

Castiel leans over him, and Dean feels him sliding in again, slick and hot, and up to the hilt in him. He moans, and this time he has no complaints about Castiel going slow, just lets him rock their bodies together until Dean is a strung out, sticky mess, and Castiel has come again, shivering against him, not a hair of space between their bodies.

After, Castiel slides away again, comes back with a cool wet towel, and presses it gently to Dean's flaming face, his flushed chest. He wipes away the few traces of tears that Dean hadn't known were snaking out of his eyes, presses the cold, soft fabric behind his knees and into the crooks of his arms, and then between his legs, until Dean is cool and clean.

Castiel disappears to clean himself up, and then he comes back, he moves a cloth recliner over to the side of the couch, sprawls himself into it and pops the tops from two bottles of beer, straight from the fridge. Dean doesn't want to sit up, but Castiel's found a straw, so he sips beer without disturbing his trembling, aching body, and lets Castiel run his fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

And he thinks about Castiel's scars, about his slow, quiet method of taking him. Dean doesn't think there's a person alive that careful with a stranger's body, with their pleasure, their need. He certainly hasn't met someone like that before.

Somewhere, in the quiet, naked warmth, Dean thinks of Castiel popping pills to hold himself together, so that he could go on putting everyone else's pieces back into place.

And he says something that doesn't quite make sense,

"I'm gonna keep you together."

And Castiel's hand on his head stops moving, but he rests the cool bottle against Dean's hot throat.

"You can take me apart, because you'll look after the pieces."


End file.
